


I Walked With You Once Upon A Dream

by neglectedtuesday



Series: The Steter Network Monthly Prompts [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Brief Theo/Stiles Non-Con Kiss, Canon-Typical Violence, Curses, Fractured Fairy Tale, M/M, Mage Peter Hale, Mentioned Jennifer Blake, Mentioned Lydia Martin, Mentioned Scott McCall, Minor Character Death, The Steter Network Monthly Prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 23:45:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14092356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neglectedtuesday/pseuds/neglectedtuesday
Summary: Legend says that in the forest there’s a tower tall as the sky, made of stone ancient as the mountains. Its location is unknown, a gem hidden amongst the trees that only the brave or foolish seek. The forest is dangerous, full of magic, and not all of it good. At the top of the tower, they say there’s a boy with eyes of amber and skin so pale the Moon is jealous of its glow. There are many stories of of how he came to be there, but one thread binds every tale: the boy is as powerful as he is beautiful, and the one who can find him and wake him shall have both. Many have tried, and all those who have returned have failed.





	I Walked With You Once Upon A Dream

**Author's Note:**

> The Steter Network Monthly Prompt for March - Fractured Fairy Tale --> I took Sleeping Beauty, with the end as the beginning and worked backwards.
> 
> Beta Read by Twisted_Mind - My god, she has the patience of a saint. I was all over the place with this, deviating from the form with no rhyme or reason and putting in historically inaccurate objects. Twist was also very confused that I would write stuff in that didn't further the plot and was just poetic prose. I'm too postmodern for this genre, please forgive me Twist.

Legend says that in the forest there’s a tower tall as the sky, made of stone ancient as the mountains. Its location is unknown, a gem hidden amongst the trees that only the brave or foolish seek. The forest is dangerous, full of magic, and not all of it good. At the top of the tower, they say there’s a boy with eyes of amber and skin so pale the Moon is jealous of its glow. There are many stories of of how he came to be there, but one thread binds every tale: the boy is as powerful as he is beautiful, and the one who can find him and wake him shall have both. Many have tried, and all those who have returned have failed.

 

//

 

Theo slashes the bracken with his sword, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He heard the rumours that the forest was dense, but hadn’t expected a wall of thorns to stand between him and the tower. He’s only managed to get a hundred paces in and he’s exhausted. The tower stretches high above him, backlit by a sky that threatens rain. He has a long way to go.

 

The thought of the boy at the top of the tower spurs him on. He has heard many versions of the tale, and covets the boy’s power. He has skulked in the shadows for years, desiring simple-minded King Scott’s throne. He can seize it, with the boy at his side.

 

He reaches the base of the tower as the sun drops below the horizon, the sky turned prussian blue. Theo has to cut away the ivy before he can find the door, even with the light of the full moon. The wood is rotted with age, and gives way under the force of his kick.

 

Inside is dark. Theo removes his pack, reaching inside for a torch.The flickering yellow light does nothing for the gloom, but allows him to see the ceiling, littered with cobwebs, and the dull metal banister attached to the wall, as well as the stone steps. He smiles with more teeth than necessary, and begins to climb.

 

The stairs seem to stretch  for an eternity, and Theo has to take breaks to calm his laboured breaths. But he pushes onward, his prize so close he can almost taste it.

 

Eventually, he reaches the top. He pushes the door open, and the creak of rusted hinges echoes in the deserted tower. Moonlight streams through the window, illuminating the circular room, empty save for an opulent bed. Theo can see a figure beneath the faded gold sheets, and licks his dry lips.

 

The boy is beautiful, with delicate features and porcelain skin. Theo approaches, in awe of a creature so unearthly, it must be an angel. The boy’s lips look soft. They’re a pale pink that would make cherry blossoms envious. He wants to kiss the boy, wants to know if those lips taste as sweet as they look.

 

Theo bends down, closing his eyes as he brushes his lips against the boy’s in a chaste kiss.

 

The boy’s stillness breaks as he takes his first breath.

 

Theo draws his last.

 

//

 

Stiles pushes the Knight off of him. He takes deep, shuddering breaths, sitting up slowly. He is conscious of his dry mouth and the rapid beat of his heart. Stiles pushes the man who woke him onto the floor, and slides out from under the sheets. The floor is cold beneath his feet. He stands and takes a step forward, only to find his legs are as weak as a newborn colt’s. His soles feel tender, and he won’t make it far without shoes.

 

Good thing the Knight who woke him won’t be using his.

 

//

 

When Stiles was young, a boy on the cusp of manhood, he fell in love with a girl. She was beautiful and clever, with hair like Autumn. He would have done anything for her. Lydia became queen after her parents tragic deaths, with Stiles as her most trusted advisor. The kingdom was prosperous, the people safe and happy.

 

All but one. Deep in the forest lived a wicked witch named Jennifer. She was jealous of the Queen. So, Jennifer, hungry for power, cursed Lydia, so that anything she touched would perish.

 

Distraught, Lydia and Stiles endeavoured to break the curse. After days of research, Stiles found a way to take the curse upon himself. And so he did.

 

Jennifer, enraged that she’d been thwarted, added to her curse. She put Stiles into an enchanted slumber that could only be broken by a kiss.

 

Queen Lydia eventually drove a poisoned blade through Jennifer’s shrivelled heart, but the curse endured beyond its maker. Heartsick, the Queen locked him away in a tower, trusting the forest to protect him, and set to work finding a cure.

 

Many years have passed since then and no cure has been found . Over time, the briar grew, shielding the tower from the world. Stories began to spread of the magical boy hidden within. The sleeping beauty waiting for a kiss.

 

//

 

Stiles stumbles down the steps of the tower, and into the night. He has no idea where to go, so he picks a direction, and starts walking. Even untrained as he is, he feels the power in the forest, and trusts it to guide him. The wind howls, a low, melancholy sound.

 

Thunder rumbles, lighting cleaving the sky in two. Stiles turns his face up into the downpour. He’ll be soaked through soon but the rain on his skin feels almost holy. The forest welcoming him back to the land of the living. The ground turns to slick mud that he sinks into several times. He’s barely gone thirty paces and the bottoms of his trousers are heavy with the weight. He closes his eyes, praying to every deity he knows, and a few he only half-remembers. He hopes he can be forgiven for being lax in providing offerings, that the forest will pity him enough to lead him somewhere safe.

 

As he walks he can feel unseen forces nudging him in the right direction. They lead him to a clearing and a stone cottage with a wooden porch. Stiles puts a hand up to his eyes to shield them from the rain. He murmurs a quick prayer of thanks as he walks up the gravel path. The front door is solid oak, with a small stained glass window about head height. A wolf skull surrounded by purple aconite. Stiles traces the edge of the skull, feeling the dark magic woven into the design.

 

Stiles reckons this dark magician will not look too favourably upon him should Stiles ask for shelter at this hour. But the forest guided him here and Stiles trusts that judgment. He sits down on the porch, afraid to fall asleep once more. He knows that part of his curse is broken but it’s still daunting. Eventually exhaustion wins. Stiles curls up and dreams of aconite flowers blooming.

 

//

 

Peter wakes to find a boy asleep at his front door. Peter is not fond of trespassers, no matter how pretty they are, but he’s willing to be lenient given that nothing appears to be destroyed in his garden. The boy is probably lost, poor little thing. Peter gently nudges the boy with his foot.

 

The boy wakes up, flailing his limbs like a startled deer. He looks up at Peter with eyes like liquid copper, and Peter finds himself enamoured.

 

“I’m sorry,” the boy says, voice sandpaper rough. “I was just looking for shelter from the rain.”

 

“Well, you certainly found it,” Peter replies. “What are you doing in this part of the wood?”

 

“I’m lost,” the boy answers. “I’ve been away, and I’m trying to get home. I just don’t know which way home is.”

 

Peter tilts his head, considering. Peter has never been a charitable man, but there’s something about this boy that calls to him. His curiosity wins, knowledge is power after all. “Perhaps if you tell me  where your home is, I can tell you where to go,” he offers.

 

The boy gets to his feet. Peter reaches out to steady him, but the boy flinches away. “Don’t touch me!” he cries.

 

“Why not, little one?” Peter asks gently.

 

The boy looks at his feet. “Because if you do, you’ll die.”

 

//

 

Stiles is grateful that Peter decided to take him once he knew about the curse. Peter lets him bathe and gives him fresh clothes. Peter is broader than Stiles, so the shirt is rather loose on him, slipping over one shoulder, and the trousers are held in place with a length of rope.

 

It doesn’t surprise him to find out that Peter is a dark magic user. There a several animal skulls mounted on the walls, jars of spell ingredients on most of the shelves and piles of arcane books in every room. Stiles has to watch his step to avoid toppling the towers.

 

Peter is cooking when Stiles goes looking for him. The kitchen is a mirror of the forest. Different medicinal plants hang from the ceiling, along with copper saucepans. The wooden cupboards on first glance appear to be painted moss green but upon further inspection have moss and lichen growing upon them. Stiles sits on a stool at the island in the middle. Whatever Peter’s cooking smells good.

 

“So, how did you end up with the touch of death?” Peter asks. He plates whatever he’s been cooking. He turns around, carrying the plate over to the island and slides it across. “A little protein scramble, eggs and sausage.” He hands Stiles a fork.

 

“I was cursed.” Stiles stabs a large piece of sausage with his fork.

 

“I gathered, but what are the particulars of the curse? Perhaps I can help lift it. For a price.”

 

Stiles raises an eyebrow at Peter. “Of course.”

 

Stiles eats his breakfast, moaning softly. He’s never been so hungry and Peter’s food is divine. In between bites, he tells Peter what he knows. Peter stays silent, watching with calculating eyes.

 

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Queen Lydia has been dead a long time.”

 

Stiles looks up from his plate. It was a possibility he’d considered, but did not wish to entertain. His appetite dwindles. “How long have I been asleep?” he asks. He dreads the answer, but must know.

 

“At least two hundred years.”

 

It’s like the air has been sucked out of his lungs. He struggles to breathe, tears pricking his eyes.

 

“Stiles, breathe with me. Come on, in and out.”

 

Stiles does, Peter’s soothing tone helping him to calm down. Stiles weeps into his hands, trying to muffle the sound. Peter makes an aborted movement to touch him and Stiles wishes he could seek that comfort.

 

“What shall I do?” Stiles asks, looking up at Peter. “I have no home, no family anymore. I have nothing.”

 

Stiles wipes at his eyes, his heart aching in his chest as if someone has plunged a knife into it.

 

“You can stay here,” Peter offers. Stiles’s mouth parts in surprise.

 

“Really?”

 

“I use dark magic, I’m not put off by death. You said you were magically gifted, and I could use an apprentice. Your curse is certainly unique and I must admit, I haven’t had a challenge in some time.”

 

“I don’t know what to say,” Stiles admits. Peter gives him a crooked smile. On anyone else it would look smug, yet somehow Peter makes it look roguishly charming.

 

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to express your gratitude. For now, finish your breakfast. You’ve been languishing for two hundred years, it’s time you did some work.”

 

//

 

Peter puts Stiles to work in the garden, and they discover that if Stiles wears gloves, he doesn’t kill the plants he tends. As long as nothing touches his skin, nothing dies. Stiles also learns that if he works hard, he doesn’t think about his grief. The ache is still there, and probably will be for a long time but Stiles refuses to fall into melancholy.

 

Peter watches Stiles work. The boy’s power is barely a spark, but with time and training, Peter is confident in his ability to fan the flames. Peter usually detests company, but he’ll admit he’s intrigued by Stiles. He’s also not entirely put off by the prospect of sharing his space with another for the first time since he left his family.

 

He turns to his books to avoid thinking about what that means.

 

//

 

They are surprised to find how well they work together. Stiles finds joy in Peter’s razor sharp wit, and  throws himself into everything that Peter teaches him. This type of magic wasn’t what Stiles thought he would study, but he finds himself enjoying it. Peter is a good teacher, giving Stiles enough to support to help him work through the material on his own and is gentle in correcting him.

 

Peter adores having an eager student. Stiles is brilliant, quick to understand and willing to ask questions about anything he doesn’t. He works hard, and most nights Peter has to force him to bed so that Stiles doesn’t burn himself out. Stiles worries about sleeping, terrified that he won’t wake up. Peter wishes he could provide more than reassuring words, but the summer heat means Stiles is wearing less clothing and Peter cannot touch him. No matter how much he wants to.

 

//

 

Occasionally Peter gets visitors desperate for help. Dark magic unnerves most, but is a necessary part of nature. Darkness helps to balance the light, and while few approve of Peter’s methods, they don’t mind employing him to use them. Why dirty your own hands when you can pay someone else to?

 

Stiles makes himself scarce when people visit, afraid of accidentally touching them. That doesn’t mean he’s not close by, listening in and taking notes. Peter’s little spark is so devious.

 

Deaton, King Scott’s trusted advisor, visits early Autumn. Peter has never much liked Deaton, finding his cryptic, serene attitude to be about as easy to swallow as peach pits. Though he can admire Deaton’s ambition, placing himself close to a King that requires constant guidance. Deaton would deny it of course, but Peter knows that Deaton is far more zealous than he appears.

 

Peter is teaching Stiles how to brew a simple sleeping draft but the knock at the door sends him clattering upstairs. Peter sighs and goes back to chopping wormwood root.

 

“Come in, it’s open.” Deaton enters, his white robes flowing behind him. Stitched in black above his breast is the McCall royal emblem. Peter has always thought it looked like a target.

 

“Deaton, how nice of you to drop by unannounced. To what do I owe the displeasure.”

 

“I require your assistance with a spell.”

 

“Is that so?” Peter deflects, dropping the wormwood into the saucepan. The liquid hisses and turns turquoise before fading to a pale peacock blue. Peter stirs anticlockwise.

 

“King Scott requires a potion that will heal King Gerard’s ailments,” Deaton states. “In doing so, you will help bring about an alliance between the kingdoms.”

 

“I care for King Scott about as much as the weeds in my garden, and King Gerard even less.”

 

Peter crumbles a few oak leaves into the saucepan.

 

“An alliance between kingdoms and peace is more important than your personal feelings.”

 

“Somehow, I very much doubt that.”

 

Peter will give it to Deaton, the man isn’t fazed by anything he says. Peter would hate to play cards against him.

 

“I suppose you want your usual payment?” Deaton asks, rolling up the sleeve of his robe. Peter grins.

 

“A pint of your blood is always welcome, but no. I want something else. I want you to look through the royal archives and send me everything you have on curses.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Professional curiosity. Do we have a deal?”

 

Deaton takes a moment, evidently thinking the matter over. After a moment, he holds out his hand. They shake on it, their magic binding them to the agreement.

 

//

 

Stiles completes his first ritual without assistance on Samhain, in a small clearing not too far from the cottage. Peter couldn’t take his eyes off of Stiles, even if he wanted to. His little spark is beautiful in the moonlight with his eyes of burning gold.

 

When Stiles is finished, he punches the air excitedly, rushing to Peter, and stopping short. His enthusiasm deflates a little when he realises he cannot hug Peter, but something crosses his face before he rushes back to the cottage. Peter follows, a little bemused. He finds Stiles in the kitchen, rooting around in the drawers

 

“What are you looking for?”

 

“Hold on. Sit down and I’ll be right with you, aha!”

 

Stiles retrieves the roll of parchment from the back of the drawer. He cuts a section with silver scissors, then puts on his gardening gloves. Peter waits patiently, watching.

 

“Ok,” Stiles says. He approaches slowly, and places the parchment against Peter’s cheek. Stiles presses his lips against the paper in a sweet kiss. Peter can feel the warmth of Stiles’s lips through the paper. Stiles moves away, taking the parchment with him, and Peter touches his cheek.

 

“Thank you, Stiles.” Peter’s voice is soft. Stiles looks down at his feet, his cheeks taking on a pale pink hue.

 

//

 

They find ways of touching without skin contact. If Stiles wears gloves, they can hold hands when they go walking in the woods. They kiss with the sheets of paper between their lips. Peter makes sure every inch of skin is covered before hugging Stiles. It’s not perfect, but it’s manageable.

 

//

 

Late Winter brings trouble.

 

“What on earth?” Stiles asks, gesturing to the mutilated rabbits in the middle of the garden. The animals’ guts are strewn around, and their lifeless eyes seem to be watching him.

 

“It’s a warning,” Peter says. “Someone wants to move into our territory, and they don’t want us to be here when they do.”

 

Stiles looks from Peter to the rabbits.

 

“Isn’t that a tad dramatic?”

 

“Territory disputes often are. Let’s hope they didn’t spoil the meat.”

 

“You can’t be serious.”

 

Peter grins, bending down to inspect one of the rabbits.  “Waste not, want not.”

 

//

 

Deucalion turns up on the property the next day, a beast brought by the west wind. He stands at the edge of the garden, watching the house with blood red eyes. Every so often he’ll shift into a wolf and back, almost as if he’s proving that he can.

 

“I’ll huff and I’ll puff,” Stiles mutters, watching him through the kitchen window.

 

“Concentrate Stiles,” Peter says, “I’m only showing you how to this cleansing ritual once before it’s your turn.”

 

“Is he going to stand there all day?”

 

“He’s trying to intimidate us darling, ignore him and eventually he’ll get bored.”

 

Deucalion doesn’t leave. He lurks in the trees. Always watching, always waiting. He continues to leave dead animals around the house, eventually dragging a dead deer to the front step.

 

Stiles nudges the carcass with his foot, grimacing when blood soaks his sock.

 

“He’s getting brave,” Stiles comments. Peter looks out to the woods, and Deucalion waves a clawed hand.

 

“This is getting tedious.” Peter jumps off the porch, striding into the woods. Deucalion lopes forward to meet him.

 

They clash where the gravel meets the earth, magic and claws. Deucalion gets a swipe in, slashing Peter’s cheek. Blood hits the ground, disappears into the dirt. This is Peter’s land, it knows his blood and returns the favour. Peter pushes back, snarling, sending a pulse of energy into Deucalion’s chest. Deucalion rears back, feet skidding in the dirt.

 

“I heard you were powerful,” Deucalion says, spitting blood on the ground. “I expected more.”

 

“Sorry to disappoint.”

 

Peter wipes blood from his cheek.

 

“I’m going to kill you,” Deucalion says conversationally. “And then I’m going to rip your heart out and present it to your pretty boy.”

 

Peter bares his teeth.

 

“Not if I don’t rip yours out first.”

 

Deucalion grins. He leaps forward, aiming for Peter’s throat. Peter turns aside, drawing a dagger from his belt. Deucalion elbows him in the face before he can strike. Peter staggers back, nose streaming. It’s not broken, not yet.

 

Peter snarls, lunging forward and managing to stab Deucalion in the side. Deucalion sinks his claws into Peter’s shoulder in retaliation. Black lightning crackles in Peter’s hand. Deucalion pulls the knife from his side, tossing it into the trees. They clash again, Peter using his momentum to strike Deucalion in his wounded side with the lightning. Deucalion roars, the lighting making the wounded flesh sizzle. Deucalion pushes Peter away with one hand, pressing his other hand to his side.

 

“Color me impressed,” Deucalion growls, more wolf than man. Peter snaps his fingers, and the lightning morphs into black fire. He darts forward again, but miscalculates, and Deucalion’s strike sends him reeling. Peter staggers, his ears ringing. Deucalion hits him again, driving Peter to his knees.

 

“No,” Stiles yells. Deucalion leers.

 

“Don’t worry your pretty head love, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

 

Peter tries to get up, but Deucalion kicks him in the ribs.

 

“Wait,” Stiles calls, running towards them. He skids to a stop in the dirt. “Don’t kill him, you can have me! Just leave him alone.”

 

Deucalion grins, prowling forward. Stiles smiles, holding out his hands. Deucalion cups Stiles’s cheek, smearing it with blood.

 

Deucalion gives a pained sound and slumps forward. Stiles steps out of the way, letting him sprawl dead in the the dirt.

 

“Clever boy,” Peter says, managing to get to his feet.

 

“Can you make it to the house? I’m not wearing my gloves.”

 

Peter nods, limping forwards. “The healing potions are in the cupboard above the spice rack. Bring me one of the gold and one of the silver one.”

 

Stiles runs off, grabbing his gloves on the way.

 

Peter makes it to the front steps, using the rail to ease himself down onto the steps. Stiles rushes back, the bottles in his gloved hands. He hands them both to Peter. Peter pulls the corks out with his teeth, downing the potions one after the other. He shudders at the taste, wincing as his flesh knits back together.

 

Stiles sits with him, and smooths back Peter’s hair. The touch is tender, and Peter leans into it.

 

“You’ve got blood all over your face,” Stiles murmurs.

 

“So do you.” Peter, reaches forward without thinking. Stiles flinches before he can make contact,  and Peter’s hand drops.

 

“I’ll go get a cloth,” Stiles mutters before going inside. Peter sighs, leaning back against the railing.

 

//

 

Peter moves Stiles into the main bedroom, utilising magic to turn his double bed into two singles. Stiles falls asleep easier when he can hear Peter’s breathing. It makes it difficult not to just reach out and touch him.

 

The hardest part is watching Stiles pleasure himself and being unable to help. Peter yearns to take Stiles apart with his fingers and tongue, reduce him to wordless moans and put him back together but has to settle for watching. He admits, there’s something powerful in the way Stiles watches him, the lust blown pupils and parted lips but Peter cannot wait for the day that the curse is broken.

 

//

 

A whole year passes before Peter finds a cure. He will never admit this to Deaton out loud, but without Deaton’s access to the royal archives, he might never would have found it. And as much as he loathes Jennifer, he admires her ingenuity. He puts the book down, hurries off to find Stiles.

 

Stiles is sat on the front steps, deeply focused on his reading. He’s tracing a line with his finger, copying it out into his notebook. He’s distracted which is perfect. Peter walks up to him, grabs Stiles chin and pulls him into a kiss. Stiles moans, surrendering to Peter. It takes a few moments before Stiles realises what is happening and he lurches backward in shock.

 

“What are you doing? You could have died, you complete idiot, you could’ve… you’re not dead.”

 

“So astute of you to notice, darling.”

 

Stiles looks down at his hands. Nervously he brings his right hand up to Peter’s face. Peter leans into the touch, kissing Stiles palm. Stiles smiles, his eyes watering a little.

 

“I can touch you.”

 

“True Love’s Kiss,” Peter murmurs, hauling Stiles out of his chair to pull him close. “An archaic cure but…”

 

Peter is cut off by Stiles kissing him. Peter’s hands go to Stiles waist, he slips them beneath Stiles’ shirt, thumbs rubbing circles into the skin of Stiles’ hip. They part, leaning their foreheads together.

 

“Bed,” Peter growls, “now.”

 

//

 

Peter snaps his fingers and the bed glues itself back together. Peter pushes Stiles down onto the sheets, nuzzling against Stiles cheek before pulling him into a kiss. Peter thinks he’ll never get used to the feeling of Stiles skin.

 

Stiles bucks up, moaning loudly. Peter grins, nipping at the soft skin behind Stiles ear. Peter bites and sucks dark marks into the taut skin of Stiles neck, pressing him into the bed. Stiles hand slip beneath Peter’s shirt, nails raking down Peter’s back. Everywhere Stiles touches feels electric, Peter’s skin tingles.

 

They move apart, yanking each other’s shirts off. Peter traces the line of Stiles chest, moves his head close and runs his tongue across Stiles right nipple. His hand comes up to play with the other, rolling it between his fingers.

 

“Ah, ah Peter!”

 

“Yes darling,” Peter drawls.

 

“I haven’t been touched in quite a long time and I don’t want this to be over before it’s begun so maybe if we could get to the uh… hard and fast stuff.”

 

Peter laughs.

 

“One day Stiles, I’ll teach you about the joys of waiting.”

 

“And I’ll be a diligent student when that day comes, but for now please fuck me.”

 

“As you wish sweetheart.”

 

Trousers and underwear are removed, flung over shoulders and forgotten. Stiles cock is leaking steadily. Peter leans down, lapping at the head. He smirks when Stiles legs fall open. He sucks a few possessive bruises into Stiles thigh, a clear declaration of intent. Not that he imagines anyone will get close enough to see them.

 

Peter reaches over to the bedside drawer, grabbing the oil. He slicks up his fingers, tracing the dark furl of Stiles hole before pushing inside.

 

“Does it feel good?” Peter asks, voice hoarse with want. Stiles nods.

 

“Yes, feels so good. More, please.”

 

Peter adds a second finger. He’s watched Stiles finger himself open before but he wants to take his time. Wants to make Stiles spine melt with pleasure.

 

Peter keeps fingering Stiles until he gets up to four fingers; his mouth and other hand roaming over Stiles body until Stiles is a needy whining mess.

 

“If you don’t get in me soon, we’ll go back to no touching.”

 

“You wouldn’t dare.”

 

“Try me,” Stiles snaps, yanking Peter into a heated kiss. Peter slides his fingers out, nipping at Stiles bottom lip. As much fun as teasing Stiles is, Peter’s own hardness is starting to throb.

 

Peter pushes in, slow and steady. He lets Stiles get used to it, pressing soft kisses against Stiles’ cheeks.

 

“Are you alright?” Peter murmurs. He wants to start moving but won’t until Stiles gives him the go ahead.

 

“I love you,” Stiles says, hand coming up to cup Peter’s face. Peter kisses Stiles palm.

 

“I love you too.”

 

Peter rolls his hips, reducing Stiles to babbling praises and wordless moans. Stiles back bows when Peter hits his prostate. All technique is abandoned, it becomes hard and fast. Stiles hand slips down and he fists his cock, precum smearing Peter’s belly.

 

They come together, moaning into each other’s mouths. Peter slides out, kissing Stiles messily. They curl around each other; Stiles can’t stop running his fingers along Peter’s skin.

 

“Love you,” Peter murmurs against Stiles neck, “forever.”

 

“Forever sounds pretty good.”

 

//

 

Deep in the woods, there’s a cottage. It’s made of stone that’s not quite as old as the mountains and is home to two very powerful dark magicians. The tales say that their love was powerful enough to break a terrible curse and if you asked them about it, well, they would agree with you, it's certainly their happily ever after. Then they would run you off the property for trespassing. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, if you like my fanfiction then I'm pretty sure you'll like my poetry - head over to kblairpoetry on tumblr to see my work!


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